The man was dressed in the garb of a hunter, with leggins, moccasins, and coonskin cap, and in one hand he carried a rifle, while the other held the reins which guided his horse.
The hunter was turned half around in the saddle, looking back toward half a dozen Indians, who had been pursuing him, but were now gathered about their chief, who had been struck from his horse by a ball from the hunter's rifle.

The latter's face wore a broad grin, which testified to the satisfaction he felt at the result of this shot.

This picture had been shown to old Bob Kelly, who, after regarding it attentively for a few moments, declared that it must have been painted by some one who was acquainted with the story of his last trip to the Saskatchewan, the particulars of which he had related to Dick on the night he made his first appearance in their camp.
"I don't know how the chap that made that ar' pictur' could have found it out," said old Bob, who, simple-hearted fellow that he was, really believed that the hunter in the painting was intended to represent him, "'cause I never told the story to nobody 'cept you an' my chum Dick.

But thar's one thing wrong about it, youngsters.

When I shot a Injun, I didn't hold my rifle on the horn of my saddle, an' waste time laughin' over it.